


2,800

by paratoxic



Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Car Accidents, Crime Fighting, Father Figures, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Mentor Tony Stark, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is an Avenger, Platonic Relationships, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Protective Tony Stark, Psychological Trauma, Saving the World, Teen Angst, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark is Good With Kids, Underage Drinking, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 07:56:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11664873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paratoxic/pseuds/paratoxic
Summary: Also known as the melting point of iron. After nearly dying going after The Vulture, Peter seems to light the fuse to a whirlwind of near-death experiences - and the traumatic psychological damages that follow. You think the worst thing that could happen is having a building fall on you, but then you've been shot, and then you have internal bleeding, and then—Look, the aftermath isn't pretty. Tony just hopes he has enough bandaids to patch up his kid. What is this, Whumptober?





	1. The Events

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my Tumblr [here](http://paratoxic-ao3.tumblr.com/).

The first time Peter is ever truly terrified is at the site of a wrecked building, rubble in all directions, and the entirety of his lower body is crushed beneath it. It's around this time that he notices he's pretty stupid for not realising that saving the world (or at least trying to) would have these kinds of consequences, and that being a superhero means you can get hurt. Contrary to (his own) popular belief, he's not invincible.

 

Peter regains consciousness to discover he can't move, and as his head swarms with worst-case-scenarios, his chest constricts. He can kind of feel it - the claustrophobia, the hard weight of metals and stones digging into his air space - but kind of not, almost as if he's left his body out of shock. Shallow breaths and pointless noises escape his lips, crossed between cries for help and gasps of pain. His vision blurs in and out of focus and his muscles twitch with a burning he scarcely registers.

 

"Hello," he croaks, tries to shout, but his voice is weak. Like he's swallowed a mouthful of dust. Now he understands how Rose must have felt in 'Titanic' when she heard the boats coming back to rescue the survivors - the freezing temperatures preventing her from screaming at the top of her lungs, and how incredibly irritating more than anything that would have been. Peter can barely whisper. He wishes he had a whistle, could call someone to turn back around and notice him. Rose was saved in the end, so maybe there's hope for him; hope that he can survive this.

 

"Hey!" He chokes on his words as his voice rises in volume. Where is everyone? Why is everything so silent? He's completely alone, and nobody even thinks anybody could be down here anyway, so what are the chances of a rescue mission - slim to none? It’s like he’s invisible, like he’s nothing without his suit to label him a hero. But Peter thinks back to the familiar words he was told: if he was nothing without his suit, he shouldn't be wearing it.

 

And so that's the reason he’s here. Peter can't stop hyperventilating. He really is nothing without that suit because otherwise he wouldn't be here, trapped and alone. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply before shuddering out a long breath. Maybe he doesn't need the suit, though - maybe being Spider-man with his super-strength and healing factor and whatnot is enough, and maybe he can get himself out of this providing his injuries aren't too severe. Maybe he doesn't need anyone else's help.

 

Peter is once again reminded that he can't move much at all, and that most parts of him, he can hardly physically feel. This could be a good sign - sometimes feeling nothing is better than feeling pain. Or is that far too optimistic? He wishes he had Karen to give him a rundown of his vitals, at least. Karen or some other genius running around in his head like...

 

Tony Stark.

 

“Mr... Stark!” He coughs out aimlessly but his shrill voice is swept up in the wind, lost in other low buzzing noises. Maybe Iron Man’s floating around, maybe he’s seen the commotion, the destruction, and reckons Peter might be a part of it. Maybe Tony cares enough to look for him. He discovers he can move his right arm - success! - and twists it so he can touch whatever is above him that's holding him down. It's cold, hard and heavy. "Mr Stark!”

 

He moves his arm back to where it was before, accidentally grazing a hand across his leg. It's a weird sensation. He starts as he feels something warm and wet spilling across his thigh: Blood. A lot of it.

 

Peter cranes his neck to finally look at himself. His make-do suit is slightly torn open - he can't even see a wound, only a firetruck red puddle slipping around on his skin like thin jelly. Peter remembers something from health class in school - if your blood from a wound is a darker crimson, you haven't struck an artery. There’s a chance for you. But this is not a darker crimson, so Peter fears his arteries won't thank him.

 

It's a long gash - something's probably just slashed right through it, and he can't feel a thing. Come to think of it, his entire leg's at a weird angle (probably broken). With a multitude of heavy bits of rubble all over him, he's not surprised he's pretty battered.

 

What would the Avengers think of him right now, lying here and bleeding to death? He can barely keep his concentration enough to ponder over it, which likely means he has a pretty bad concussion too - a concussion that's making him more than weary as the typical black dots spiral into his vision. He's passed out many times before whether it be due to missions or stupid things like dehydration, so why does it feel so different now? Why does it feel like he won't wake up again?

 

Peter Parker is dying under this rubble, all alone, without his suit, without saying goodbye to Aunt May or Ned or Michelle or even giving Mr Stark the finger for taking away what could be his life support (and he hopes the billionaire feels guilty). But he probably deserves it, too, all this sneaking away and worrying everybody and putting himself and others in danger all of the time. He isn't a real superhero, just a liability that's crushed into the dirt.

 

He lays his head back down, blinking at the stars and the dust overhead. It's a beautiful night. Those little black dots are giving him one hell of a migraine, though. His eyes flicker shut of their own accord, after the last thing he sees - an iron suit of red and gold diving down to greet him.

 

"Peter." Tony hurries to clear the superhero of what's lying on top of him, tossing the slabs of concrete out of the way with effort, and lands on the ground next to the injured boy. It was lucky that the bad feeling in his stomach wouldn't go away and he decided to go out to check on his protege. Not so lucky he found the kid in this current state. “F.R.I.D.A.Y., call someone, call - crap—”

 

"Calling ‘Cap’..."

 

Tony’s blood runs a little cold for a moment at the name, but he doesn't refuse it. Steve won’t pick up anyway, no way, not after what happened between them. It would be dumb, calling another Avenger when they’re broken apart and Peter is dying and it’s all pointless anyway. Tony needs paramedics to save a child’s life, not a war veteran with a shield.

 

Tony struggles to take his helmet off, dropping to his knees, too preoccupied with Peter to worry about the call he’s making to Steve Rogers. He dips down to press an ear to Peter's chest, listening for a heartbeat, and he lets out a strange noise of relief when he finds it, barely drumming away. Okay, that's fine. He can work with that. “Kid? Come on—”

 

He throws his helmet back on, reluctantly awaiting Steve's voice if he ever decides to answer, and rips a little piece of Peter's make-do suit off from the knee to tie around his bleeding leg. He carefully gathers the slumped unconscious body in his arms.

 

“Tony,” comes Steve's voice from the other end, surprised but not malicious. Tony can’t remember the last time he heard his voice. Weird feelings arise.

 

"I’m not fighting with you right now; I don’t have the time. I know you’re in the area so gather the team, search the city, I—" He doesn't know what he's asking as he takes off from the building site, horrific thoughts of doctors and defibrillators and death on his mind. "There’s something going on in the city, Cap, and I’m a little preoccupied so you’re gonna have to deal with it."

 

While he’s helping Peter, Tony trusts what’s left of the Avengers to help. Or, no, not the Avengers - they don't have a name anymore. Whatever the bunch of rogues want to call themselves is fine by him as long as they do something. Hammering heart and trembling muscles hidden underneath his suit, he heads for the nearest hospital. He stays optimistic by imagining what the kid will say when he wakes up: something like, "Aunt May's gonna freak when she sees the bill," to which Tony will reply, "You think I'm gonna let you pay the bill, kid?"

 

After all, it's Tony's fault this happened. If he had just let Peter keep the goddamn suit, this wouldn’t have happened. He tries hard not to get too angry at himself as he flies. He’s failed too many people, and his mind takes him back to the accords, and he starts to really wish Steve would’ve just agreed with him from the start.

 

*

 

Peter wakes up a day or so later, and this time there is pain. There's a hot oxygen mask across his mouth for a start and what must be needles poking into the creases of his elbows. A strangled noise comes out as he attempts to move around on the silky sheets, experiencing a particular burning in his injured thigh, one of his arms, his head and his ribs and chest area.

 

"Take it easy, you don't want to open up any stitches." Tony reaches over to place a gentle but firm hand on Peter's good arm, holding him in place. Peter turns to face his mentor and slowly takes off his oxygen mask, eyes wide and gaping.

 

"How are you feeling, kid?" Tony winces at his own dumb question.

 

Peter shakes his head nonetheless, flinching at the pain that shoots up through his arm to his shoulder to his neck. Thankfully he’s too drugged up for it to be overwhelming. He wouldn't want to admit it in any case.

 

Tony prepares himself for a horrid reaction to what he's about to say. “Peter, you have every right to be angry—”

 

"What happened? Did you stop The Vulture; did he get away?" Peter tries to sit up but only ends up on one good elbow, almost wheezing, his thoughts racing. “Mr Stark, how long have I...?”

 

Tony shoots him an incredulous look that fades into guilt. He took away Peter's suit - a decision nearly got the kid killed - and he's not even yelling at Tony like he deserves? Peter is too good for the world. "We got him. He’s out of the picture, don’t overthink it. You’ve been out just over a day. Your aunt knows you're here, she’s waiting in the lobby."

 

“But how did you catch him if you were trying to help me?” Peter asks, tired and confused as the meds get to him.

 

Tony can’t bear to go into depths about why he and Captain America aren’t on the best terms, and why exactly they were fighting against him at that airport way back when, so he summarises: “I called in a favour from a friend. I hoped I wouldn’t be hearing much more from him but... maybe you’ll see him around. Look, don't worry about it.”

 

Peter's eyes dazedly shift to the door then the window, seeing everything outside looks as it should - no burning or collapsed buildings, no smoke in the air, no fires in sight. He's glad but his heart seems to deflate. "I messed up," he whispers, thankfully seeming to forget about Tony’s ‘friend’.

 

Tony has to compose himself, unused to hearing the usually enthusiastic boy so disappointed in himself. "What? No, Peter, that's a fat lie - you didn't mess up. Why would you think that? I'm in the wrong here for not listening to you about that child-beating little c— ... oh." When Peter's eyes well up with tears, Tony has to stop to consider what to do, but in the end it’s just instinct that he beckons the kid closer and envelopes him in a hug. Tony doesn't really hug people so he doesn't know if he's comforting him or further scarring him, so he makes sure to be gentle. He doesn't do well with crying children.

 

“You don’t have to justify yourself,” Tony goes on awkwardly as Peter gnaws on his lip and holds back tears. He speaks in a low voice, kind of embarrassed. "Uh, you know, I’m proud of you. Without you, God knows what could've happened. You helped to save the world and a lot of people don’t get out of that alive. Anyway, I suck at compliments and I'm the one who should be sorry - you wouldn't be in here if I didn't take away your suit."

 

"Can I get it back?" Peter asks quietly and Tony's eyes crinkle as he makes a face then ashamedly agrees.

 

*

 

Months later, before Peter is granted permission to help in the next mission (he begs Tony to just make him a full-time Avenger already but Tony is somewhat concerned about the schoolwork he's missing, and more than anything wants to avoid the topic of the Avengers), Tony decides to have a hardly-thirty-seconds awkward talk with Steve and he sends the Captain to have a word with Spider-man about regard for his own safety. ‘Remind the guy to be careful and don’t get himself killed - and he’s young and excitable and he’s probably going to rile himself up like a fan-girl when he sees you even though he got kind of crushed when you fought him, so be prepared.’

 

It makes sense to pick Steve for the job as he is (... was) the leader of the Avengers, and he's proven to give good advice in the past no matter what Tony believes. Tony can't tell Peter to be cautious when they're out because Peter Parker simply does not listen to Tony Stark. Example: "What happened to the friendly neighbourhood Spider-man?" ... Yeah, what ever did happen to that guy? Totally ignored.

 

The only thing Tony could do was reinstall Peter's suit tracker after the superhero took the previous one out just so he can keep an eye out on the kid's location. Perhaps he's more worried than he'd like to admit, and perhaps he even cares about Peter's safety more than he realises. Either way, Tony is smug when he installs the smaller, almost-invisible tracking device that will help keep the kid safe (is it so much to ask that he keep out of harm's way when required?). It can even alert Tony if Peter's vitals go pear-shaped.

 

Nobody knows about the new tracker but him - certainly not Peter, and not Steve. Steve is going in blinded, thinking it's on him to protect the superhero and totally up to him to convince Spider-man that, yeah, the world may need a self-sacrificing (within limit) hero or two, but definitely not a crazy death-seeking moron. Peter is young, way too young to become anything like an Avenger as tough as he may be, and naïve. He doesn't know the world yet like Steve or even Tony unfortunately do.

 

And Tony was right: Peter, dressed as Spider-man, freaks out when they meet. Steve is gentle and dubious and blushing and flattered, and has to order the kid to sit down in Tony’s conference room before his heart leaps out of his chest. Steve realises that it’s likely nerves from the upcoming mission Tony’s allowed him on, and it’s his job to calm him down. But Peter isn’t just nervous, he’s also confused and irritated as to why Steve won’t answer his questions about why they fought on opposite sides the last time they saw each other.

 

"Uh," Steve starts after a while of confusion at the situation, "would you mind if I asked how old you are?" Behind the mask, for some reason, Steve is picturing some adolescent innocent who isn't cut out for this, and once again he internally curses Tony for everything that's happened.

 

Peter looks like he wants to say something about it before deciding it's a bad idea and his identity should most definitely be kept a secret. "I'd mind," he admits regretfully and neither of them bring it up again.

 

"You know, there’s been times I really wish I could say my goodbyes to the people I love before I go seeking something bad. It’s just that sometimes...” Steve cuts himself off, not wanting to finish the sentence with ‘sometimes they might be your last’. He’s not trying to scare the guy. He’s leaning against the doorframe as he watches the hero shoot experimental webs at the wall in the conference room, twirling around in a chair - he's still largely getting used to the hundreds of settings the advanced technology can provide.

 

"I always say goodbye, Mr Rogers. My friends and Aunt M- I mean, my friends think I've got some kind of foreign work experience with Mr Stark," Peter babbles excitedly, leaving out the part about his telling the truth to Ned - Ned isn't too gullible to believe the lie. Besides, his best friend already knows his secret identity. "I’m just excited to fly around in a private jet again."

 

He jumps up from his chair, kicking it back under the table before prancing to the door. But his smile, hidden behind his mask, drops into a half-frown of determination. “This time I'm not letting anybody down.”

 

"I know about The Vulture and what he did to you, kid. It wasn’t your fault," Steve says. This is a recurring message that Tony must repeatedly deliver, but it does not tire him because it's the truth. Spider-man did nothing wrong in trying to stop The Vulture but the problem is that everyone knows this except Peter himself.

 

Peter sighs in defeat. "I'm in too much of a good mood to argue so I suppose I’ll let you have it, Mr Rogers." He perks up suddenly. "Can I go now?"

 

"Please, don’t call me Mr Rogers. Steve is fine. And one more thing," Steve starts unsurely, but when he stares down into the eyes of Peter's mask, he smiles in fondness and reassurance that he will be able to protect this guy if Peter somehow isn't able to himself. Steve won't let him get hurt. He’ll follow him to this damn ‘mission’ if he has to, if he feels it’s right. “Tony says you should be careful not to get hurt, and he's right, but I also think it's important that you believe in your own abilities and really, really do your best, always. I'll watch out for you - I promise - but don’t hold back when time calls for it.”

 

The extensive scar on Peter's thigh from his last fight throbs with doubt. But, in reality, he does actually listen to what people tell him sometimes. “I won’t, Mr—” He stops to correct himself. “... Steve.”

 

*

 

The second time Peter is ever truly terrified is at the set of a sudden attack in Chicago when, after jetting over and hoarding away a crowd of dozens out of harm's way, a forty-five-feet-long bus is tossed in his general vicinity and he is given approximately three seconds to react. It's about as terrible as it sounds. It's tumbling too fast with too much force to consider using his web shooters as a defence mechanism so logically, all he can do is run.

 

Aliens invade Earth - again, and so typically - and they resort to throwing a goddamn bus at a child? What happened to laser guns and good old invincibility? Peter dives behind a car parked adjacent to a fountain run dry (hardly a suitable cover but there is no time for being picky) and braces himself for impact, knees to his chest and hands over his head, hoping with any luck the bus will fly over the car and the fountain will take the blunt force and shatter.

 

The bus does fly straight over the car - no slow motion as it appears in the movies where Peter is brave enough to glance up and see the vehicle overhead for a fraction of a second - and hits the fountain, but the fountain does not shatter. It stands still, half-broken, and the bus stops moving for a breathless moment, trapped over Peter's head by inches as it is wedged between two solid structures. Slowly, it begins to creak and shuffle down, and then it truly falls.

 

Peter regrets his health insurance - will they consider covering something like this? - as soon as the bus lands on him, metal collapsing onto his side where he's rolled over. For a moment, all he can do is inhale a jagged breath of shock as if the very elements in his body would otherwise escape, and then there is excruciating… pain? No pain; just terror. Peter feels the side of the vehicle grazing his suit but he's safe. Okay, he's safe and nobody got hit and everything is going to be fine, right?

 

"Peter, it appears that you are confined to a small space with no immediate escape route." Karen informs him monotonously from inside the suit, and Peter's panic does this weird thing where it seems to skyrocket. "You are physically unharmed but in a state of shock. Should I call for help?"

 

It's like he's underneath that building again, gash burning on his leg, head swimming with what if's and 'I didn't get the chance to do this or that or anything I should have'. He understands Steve giving him a speech about saying goodbyes now. He can't breathe; bile rises up his throat and he resists the urge to throw up out of - fear, shock? Whatever it may be. He certainly can't find his voice to speak to Karen.

 

Steve wasn’t kidding when he said he’d look out for Peter though, because it’s Bucky goddamn Barnes (he still admires the metal arm) who lifts the would-be-heavy-weight off of him in the end (he could perhaps do it himself if he wasn't simply lying there curled up in a protective stance, frozen in a state of trauma) and Bucky’s low voice calls out, "You. Are you in pain?"

 

He chokes on his own voice. He's supposed to have super-strength but never has he felt so weak.

 

Bucky tries again, though distracted by civilians screaming as the threat moves elsewhere. “If you’re hurt, you’re getting benched. I will not let Stark—” He moves his hand to touch Peter's shoulder but cuts himself off as Peter violently takes a firm hold of Bucky’s flesh arm and twists it without a second thought, his strength blossoming to fruition.

 

Bucky is hardly moved physically but is left wide-eyed and yanking his arm back before his shoulder is dislocated. Peter, realising fighting is pointless, succumbs to his anxieties and scrambles back to the other side of the car, facing away from the Winter Soldier, eyes shut tight. The assassin is known to have killed probably thousands of people including Tony’s parents. Peter doesn't know how Tony just put that to the back of his mind when he agreed to let Bucky fight with them.

 

In his head, he chants reassurances to no avail. I am not under that building; I am not suffocating. Bucky won't kill me, we're on the same side. They have not left me. I am not in danger. I can breathe.

 

"What is this?" comes another familiar voice then there is a brief silence aside from Peter's laboured breathing. Still, he will not open his eyes, trying to avoid the disappointment of his teammates which must be inevitable after his mini freak-out. "Underroos?"

 

He lets one eye open then, slightly brought back to reality and comforted by the gentle and tired concern in that tone, heard even through the mechanical voice of a man of iron. Tony bends to his knees, keeping his respectful distance.

 

"Barnes,” he says extremely tightly, not looking, “help the others. I have things handled here. Thank you.” Tony dismisses the assassin and as he retreats, it's only then that Peter notices Steve standing, shield lowered and focus wavering, several metres away. His head is cocked in pity.

 

But Peter is a liability - it's not Steve's fault. Captain America shouldn't have to babysit the burden on the team because Peter's too careless to keep himself safe. They must be beyond irritated with the rescue missions by now. Maybe Peter should quit while he's ahead.

 

"What happened, kid?" Tony asks. The robot's voice is off-putting and loud, and Peter relates this with the image of something heartless - not a man, just a machine. Tony can't possibly care about him in that armour. “Is there a reason you tried to rip Barnes’ arm off? Yeah, I saw that, by the way.”

 

"I just…" Peter shakes his head numbly, regret filling him at the damage he nearly caused Bucky and shame building up. “I didn't mean to hurt anybody. I just forgot where I was for a second. Mr Stark, I’m sorry—”

 

"None of that. We all get like that sometimes, alright? Why don't you stand up, take a breather? We're about done here anyway and you look like you could use a hot chocolate or—" A Xanax, Tony narrowly stops himself from saying. "… Or some rest. We secured the perimeters; just dealing with a few lone and stubborn survivors crawling around the gutters and whatnot." Peter imagines their slimy, alien bodies lurching at him from behind.

 

He just wants to be strong, be something - not shattered at the thought of small spaces or infinite darkness. What kind of superhero can't finish a mission because they got scared? Tony’s going to disown him from crime fighting but what did he expect? He's only sixteen. He's only sixteen and he's heard the word from Tony's mouth before - 'done' - 'you're done' - and he feels nauseous as he imagines being exiled back home and never contacted again.

 

"Can I come closer?" asks Tony. Steve turns his back to them. Peter agrees listlessly and Tony puts a metal hand on his shoulder (surprisingly, there is not a flinch) then drops his voice down to a volume that nobody but the two of them can hear. "You thought you were trapped again," Tony guesses with curiosity.

 

"I was," snaps Peter then he shakes his head in apology, "I can't get it out of my head, Mr Stark - you know what I mean. I know it's been months but I can’t get over it."

 

“It doesn't matter how long it's been. I can't stand explosions after the grenade that nearly blew me up in Afghanistan and how many years ago was that? Not to mention taking a bath is a literal nightmare. All that water, ugh. Don't know how normal people can do it.”

 

"You nearly died, Mr Stark," Peter reminds him, though internally in despair as he knows Tony doesn't talk about Afghanistan to anyone. Why he thinks he should with Peter is beyond him. "There was a war going on. What excuse do I have?"

 

"Shut up," Tony reprimands as his patience is wearing thin, "you don't need an excuse. Listen to me, Peter, I will not allow you to beat yourself up over this. I’m no shrink but I’m certainly familiar with them and the fact that trauma can have lifelong effects on the mind, but it never means you have the right to blame yourself."

 

Maybe it's supposed to be comforting or bring a smile to his face; it makes Peter feel better in any case regardless of how scary-angry Tony is. “Steve said—”

 

“I will be having words with Steve.”

 

“I don't want a babysitter—”

 

"You have no say in the matter anymore." And now Peter's sour-faced. Tony continues after a short hesitation, "I bench you for your own good, kid. I seem to care about your wellbeing more than you do but that’s going to have to change. You can sit in the cockpit in the plane on the way back if it makes you feel any better, though - and oh, I do know this really amazing ice-cream place downtown."

 

"Yeah, you win."

 

*

 

"I can't go home," whines Peter when the sun starts to set. His ice-cream has vanished, the excitement of being over thirty-thousand feet up in Tony Stark's private jet along with it, and Peter complains at the prospect of having to face Aunt May ("You've got your internship with Mr Stark back so there's no excuse for sneaking around again, Mr Parker."). He stares out of the floor-to-ceiling windows at the top of the Tony’s skyscraper of a home, forehead pressed against the glass.

 

More than anything, however, Peter simply does not want to fall asleep. He realises it's due, felt in the slight burning behind his weary eyelids and the laziness in his limbs, but at all costs, he will avoid it. Peter doesn't want to face another nightmare like the first one he had the night after the building fell on him (the lies gritted from between his teeth hardly persuaded Aunt May to let the issue go). He can't burden anyone with his stupid screaming or distressed sleep-talking.

 

"Why not?" Steve counters, crashing at Tony’s after the long day, standing awkwardly in the doorway, a small glass in one hand. He swirls the milk around absentmindedly. "This and a decent sleeping pill always knocks me out cold when the adrenaline's still kicking - if you're worried about sleep rather than going home, that is."

 

The Captain can almost see right through him to Peter’s miserable shock. "Why would I be worried about sleep, Steve?"

 

Steve sends him a wry and disbelieving half-smile. "I know the feeling."

 

Peter only then begins to recall the stories of Captain America - how he was used in the last World War, then frozen in time. What did he go through? In fact, what did any of the Avengers go through? With sadness, Peter can't think of any superhero who hasn't gone through some kind of hardship, whether that be losing a loved one, tortures and experimentations of all sorts, or injuries that he would wince at just to think of. Perhaps he's not the only one who's a little messed up in the head.

 

"Milk, huh?" Peter hums meekly. "And the pills, you… You use them a lot?"

 

"Not too often. I get this brand, you know, the non-addictive kind. All natural ingredients. They taste horrific but act like tranquillisers after a while." Steve cranes his neck to look over his shoulder at the clock. "It’s only just struck eight so unless you want an early night, maybe we could watch a movie or something."

 

"Tony’s not sending me home?" Peter confirms incredulously, perking up at the thought of spending the night at the Tower.

 

"Uh." Steve starts to saunter over to the sofa then throws himself on it with melodramatic effect. "Aside from the fact that Tony would beat me to death with my own shield if I let you out of my sight tonight, I get it: sometimes being alone is the worst thing in the world. Now come, sit."

 

Like some kind of petrified dog, Peter does as suggested. He blinks through his mask, wishing he could tell Steve who he really is - a simple school-kid from Queens, a friend, perhaps. Deep down, though, he knows it's for the best that he doesn't. "Tony has Netflix, right?"

 

"Nah, Tony can't afford to shell out the eight dollars a month these days," Steve declares and Peter doesn't quite catch onto the joke. Steve gives him a 'duh' look. “Yes, kid, he has Netflix.”

 

"I heard they added 'The Breakfast Club'," utters Peter and curls up into himself, somehow self-conscious and afraid Steve will laugh at him for the suggestion. Steve only smiles, however, like it's the best idea in the world, and searches for the title on the ridiculously large television. Maybe the super-soldier hasn't even seen it yet - being frozen for a few decades and then some is probably pretty lacking in entertainment.

 

At the end of the movie, Peter loses some of his previous tension and relaxes into the soft leather of the couch. It's almost like today didn't happen - like he wasn't caught underneath that damn bus, or that damn building months ago. With fondness, he remembers that twice now, although the circumstances were life-threatening, Peter was saved by people who care about him and his safety and who want what's best for him. Peter suddenly appreciates how lucky he is even to have Tony ask Steve to look out for him.

 

When the credits roll, Peter stretches and stifles a yawn. Steve notices and immediately stands to head to the kitchen in search of sleeping pills. He knows the controversy surrounding them is one to pay attention to but he really always does buy the ones with natural, non-addictive ingredients that are safe to use at any time. They should start to work within half an hour, although Steve is wary about the fact that it usually takes more than one dose - more than a single night - for a fresh body to acclimatise to them. If Peter has trouble sleeping tonight especially, there's no guarantee this method will be efficient.

 

He brings through milk and a single pill as promised. Peter gives him an 'is this actually going to work?' glance and Steve keeps his lips pursed, silently urging the kid to just try it. Peter pulls up his mask to his mouth and swallows the small pill, grimacing at the foreign taste mixed with the milk.

 

"Thank you," he says eventually, because even if it doesn't work, it's the thought that Steve is really trying everything he can to help that's soothing to him. Peter can at least pray for a placebo effect.

 

"It's no problem. If you ever have trouble sleeping from now on…" Steve waves the packet about in the air, letting Peter see the brand written on it - just in case.

 

"Where's Mr Stark?" He comes to the realisation that he hasn't seen the man of iron since they got back - not even to take off his suit.

 

"Workshop, maybe? I’m hitting the hay - knock on my door or holler if you need anything." Steve stresses at the concept of Peter's suffering in silence. He swore he would look after him and this time he won't break that promise.

 

Peter waves his concern away. "I'll be fine. Don't let me keep you awake or anything. Thanks, Mr - ... Steve. I know that I..." Peter stops himself suddenly at the glare he is met with and holds up his hands in surrender. “Okay, you're right, I’m not a burden. But you know what I'm trying to say - I really needed some help with some things today and you...”

 

"It’s what friends do. Goodnight." Steve sets his empty glass down on a coaster on a table, no sleeping pill necessary tonight, and wanders off to bed.

 

Peter almost decides to find Tony in the workshop - almost being the keyword, because God knows what Tony's like when he's stressed; he won't want to talk to anyone. He shuts himself off and that's okay because it's the type of person he is. Peter respects that and leaves him be. If Tony hasn't come up to check on him, he must be at least somewhat reassured that Steve has done a good job 'babysitting' and Peter hasn't freaked out or broke anyone's arm or anything. It's a start.

 

He heads to bed as well after texting Aunt May he's staying over at Ned's (… and then pleading with Ned to cover for him, and yes, he'll tell him all about it later), cheek finding the cool side of the pillow so soft, so hazy. He's close to unconscious and not aware enough to realise there's someone standing on the other side of his door by the time they get there, ear pressed against the wooden surface to listen out for any erratic breathing or soft sobs and a sigh of relief follows when all is confirmed to be okay.

 

Tony finds he can finally breathe, after that.


	2. The Nightmares

It was ridiculous of Peter to assume he could get through the night without a catch. Sleeping soundly on the trial night of some weird sleeping pills the Cap gave him after all he's been through? It sounds too good to be true, and it turns out it is.

 

He dreams of Paris, a city he visited before Uncle Ben died, a brooding sky tearing lightning from its hinges. Rain hammers the ground and Peter is running, no suit - he would never be that fortunate in his dreams - nor even a mask. The world turns to look at him, just a boy rushing down the streets and something chasing after him. He's too scared to turn back to see what.

 

"Peter!" Someone calls and Peter follows the voice promising security. The Eiffel Tower is almost shaking in the storm and Peter sees the familiar suit of red, gold and silver holding the structure up. That's Tony, trying to stop a thousand-feet-tall chunk of metal from falling, iron on iron. "It’s going to crush you! Run!"

 

He is running, though perhaps in the wrong direction. The tower starts to crumble and Tony can't physically hold it all; the point begins to plummet to the ground below but no matter how fast Iron Man flies to catch it before it hits, Peter is caught below the shadow of its grand stupor before it can be stopped. He’s going to be flattened, trapped, again.

 

He looks up at the structure, speechless, and drops to his knees.

 

"Peter!"

 

"No!" Peter yells himself awake and upright in bed, half-conscious. There are hands gripping his shoulders to prevent him from moving but he panics, swatting at them and scrambling to get off the bed. “Stop it, STOP IT!”

 

"Stop moving—"

 

For somebody who's been traumatised by insufferably heavy objects on top of him twice now, Peter is surprised that his body takes him underneath the bed, the frame bearing down on him. He curls up, hands over his head. "Get away from me!" He yells and his voice cracks.

 

"Peter." Tony says. "It's just me, kid." He kneels down by the side of the bed.

 

"Don't," wails Peter.

 

"It's just me," Tony repeats softly, "You know you’re safe here."

 

"I - I don't want to…" Peter breaks out into half-sobs and is met with Tony's reassuring promises of 'I know, it's okay, I know'. He stares down at his own hands to realise he's shaking so much he can hardly see, and it's then he takes note of his current surroundings, underneath his own bed in a bedroom lit with dim yellow. Tony waits perhaps a metre away, expression betraying true concern. "You… what's going on?"

 

"Come here," Tony suggests and Peter does, slowly, until he's mostly out from underneath the bed and covered in dust bunnies, "you’ve really started to age me lately. Ten years on my face, I think. Nothing to worry about out here, see? You've got plenty of space, Pete. Remember to breathe."

 

He didn't even notice he was holding his breath until he exhales desperately. "Mr Stark, I'm—"

 

"Don't worry about it; there's nothing to say. We can all relate. No excuses, remember?" Tony quirks an eyebrow and Peter sighs before nodding. "Can you get back on the bed?"

 

Peter hauls himself up, perching on the edge of the mattress with his hands between his knees. He turns back to face the pillow in the darkness before shaking his head and feeling his breathing pick up. “No, I can't sleep. Don't - don't make me, I—”

 

"I was never going to suggest it. Look at me, Peter." When his protege doesn't listen, Tony hesitantly places his hands on Peter's shoulders, ignoring the slight flinch that comes with the action. Peter turns back, pupils blown. "Look at me, just calm down, okay?"

 

"Sorry—" He starts to say.

 

"Ah!" Tony puts a finger to his own lips. "Zip it." He sneaks a glance at Peter's alarm clock, the glowing red numbers proclaiming it to be 4:02am, then shifts his gaze back, fighting the heavy feeling behind his eyelids. He’s used to this, anyway. "How about I show you something I've been working on in the workshop? I can promise you're going to want to see this."

 

Peter nods kind of dumbly and goes to follow Tony down to the workshop. Illuminated by dim blues and oranges in the night, Peter gets a view of the room he wouldn't normally see, and it takes his breath away. The main Iron Man suit stands in the centre, surrounded by control panels, and there's one of Peter's suit to the side too (kept in there for convenience). There's something different about it, though.

 

"I've done some adjustments," explains Tony when he stops in front of the Spider-man suit, "so it should enhance your strength more now - not that you'd need that in normal circumstances - in case you find yourself in a situation where it's necessary. I've also improved the durability itself so nothing's going to shut down if it suffers from extensive damage - if Karen ever decided to shut down when you were about to die, that would be pretty disheartening." Peter snorts at the word choice.

 

"Now look at this," Tony continues with a stern look that tells Peter it's important, and he motions to the inside of the suit's wrists, "in here. I've installed small canisters that can shoot out darts laced with a kind of venom - one found in a variety of the box jellyfish."

 

"Jellyfish." Peter repeats back. Not even spiders? Does that make him a fraud?

 

"Peter, listen to me. You will only use this if you absolutely have to, in life or death situations. One drop of this will kill multiple people - send them straight into shock and subsequent cardiovascular collapse or heart failure." Tony warns him and it makes Peter feel queasy. They're not about killing anyone, really under any circumstances, so what Tony has made is more than a little shocking.

 

"Mr Stark, where did you get this stuff?" Peter blanches, disturbed.

 

"Never you mind." Tony pauses for a second. "I know you won't want to but promise me for my peace of mind that if you need to, you'll use this."

 

"I don't understand - I had this suit on just yesterday and you've already done all of this?" Peter reviews the grand scheme of things in a small voice, hoping to avoid the promise that may involve murder.

 

"I've been working on this for a while," Tony admits, "since…"

 

It clicks, suddenly, that he's looking out for Peter and taking these extra precautions because of a certain incident. "Since my homecoming date’s dad left me to die under a building?" Peter guesses, wincing at the memory from months ago.

 

"Yes," Tony says warily. He scratches the back of his head.

 

"This is what you've been doing this whole time?" Peter remembers all the times he's asked 'Where's Tony?' over the past while and received vague answers. "Steve told me you were in here, but he never said..."

 

"Well, I wanted to make it a surprise. I didn't plan on showing you until weeks from now but I was ahead of schedule and things came up." He scowls and rubs the back of his neck in stress.

 

"Thank you." Peter offers to Tony's surprise.

 

"Come again?"

 

"I mean it." He taps a finger over the canisters at the suit's wrists. "It's a little far-fetched and terrifying but… I promise I'll use it when I have to."

 

"That's an 'if', kid, definitely not a 'when' if we can avoid it."

 

*

 

Peter does the only thing he can from then on: move on with his life. When on patrol, he seems to be adjusting well - no panic attacks in the midst of shooting webs at robbers or would-be rapists. He's saving the world one small, chaotic piece at a time and at the moment, it's alright that he hasn't been asked to fight the bigger battles with The Avengers. He probably wouldn't cope too well anyway. Aside from the late night crime fighting, he's still in school and he's got the January blues after spending a hearty Christmas with Aunt May and - well, just Aunt May.

 

For a while, he thought maybe Tony and Pepper... but no, of course not. Peter doesn’t share that kind of relationship with them. It’s wishful thinking, and he doesn’t dwell on the disappointment. It's been weeks - a month? - and now snow still spits on his hair.

 

"Did you hear the Winter Soldier stopped a truck from ramming into this kid the other day?" Ned asks MJ as he chews around the crusts of his sandwiches. They're sitting outside for lunch break - alone, mostly, because it's far too cold for anyone else to tolerate.

 

"The kid’s in hospital, though. It's the ice that makes them skid. That black stuff is everywhere. It can't really be helped," MJ points out solemnly.

 

"I'm just saying," Ned defends, "he’s doing his best to make up for the past, you gotta give it to him. That truck would’ve killed the kid, ice or no ice. Anyway, Peter, what’s happening for your birthday on Saturday?"

 

"I don’t know, I’m watching Game of Thrones reruns." He answers truthfully - that's when he doesn't get a fright at the noise of a sword being drawn or Daenerys’ dragons screeching on the television.

 

"I wouldn't think you'd have time for that with the Stark Internship…" MJ trails off expectantly, waiting for Peter to pipe up with how incredible and eventful his life's been. Sometimes Peter even wishes he could tell her the truth because MJ seems like the type who wouldn't utter a word to anyone but the less people who know about his secret identity, the better. Hell, Ned's his best friend and Peter cringes to think of all the close calls they've had in the school corridors and whatnot.

 

"Well, uh, Mr Stark hasn't had much use for me lately. He knows we had midterms at school then even he wanted a holiday for a while. The start of the year is pretty boring so…"

 

"If you're not busy, you should throw a party," suggests Ned.

 

"Who would wanna come to that?" Peter snorts. "There would be, like, five people."

 

“Can't Mr Stark throw you one and take care of the guest-list?”

 

"What? No, that would be weird - he's my... You know, he’s my boss." Tony's idea of a party is thousands of dollars worth of champagne and dressing up in thousands of dollars worth of suits. And then being all mysterious and having to sneak away to do some Iron Man stuff like he's in a James Bond movie.

 

MJ inputs. "I think what Ned is asking is if there's any space in the Stark Tower that we could rent out - people would want to come to that if only for the location."

 

"Thanks," Peter winces, "I totally don't feel used."

 

"The way you talk about this guy suggests you guys are close," MJ continues and Peter gives a nonchalant shrug to this, "so if you can, talk to him. It's not every day you get to turn seventeen. I think everything will work out."

 

"Just so we're clear, what kind of party are we talking about here?" Peter asks and MJ and Ned exchange curious glances. Peter has never touched a drop of alcohol in his life and he isn't sure if he means to yet so this could get a little out of hand. "No, like, drugs, right? If May found out, I'd never be allowed to leave the house again."

 

"Of course not. We'll stay behind 'til morning, help you clean up the mess."

 

"How much mess are you planning - enough to get me fired?" Peter scowls but he’s more worried than irritated. "And hey, this whole thing is a big 'if', by the way, don’t get any ideas—"

 

"Let Mr Stark know you're not sneaking around any R-rated movies or four-percent beer and you'll send everyone home by midnight. No broken vases, no death metal music, whatever parents and bosses alike disapprove of."

 

"I just want to see Theon Greyjoy return to the Iron Islands again," Peter whines about his favourite TV show, imagining curling up with a tub of Ben and Jerry's and his most comfortable pyjamas at night after patrol. It's all about the small luxuries.

 

"Hey," says Ned sharply, "Theon Greyjoy is a horrible person. I bet they're going to kill him off too like they did to—"

 

"No spoilers!" MJ cuts in. "I just started season two. Peter, just ask Mr Stark, alright? No harm done." Yet.

 

When Peter decides to pluck up the courage to confront Tony two days later, the day before his birthday, it's understandably late notice. He hopes Tony will recognise, okay, it's his birthday, I'm sure one little party is acceptable - but Peter is quickly shot down.

 

"Absolutely not. In my Tower? Kid, I can't be around supervising if something goes wrong on the streets and Iron Man has to leave, and do you know how many expensive things are in here that could break?" Tony's eyebrows shoot up in disbelief. “And seriously, I hear nothing from you for weeks and then you hit me with this. Not cool.”

 

Peter dismisses the fact that Tony is his mentor and it’s up to him to call on him if there’s anything needing done. "You don't need to supervise - that's my job. There won't be many people to watch over anyway, and nothing's going to get broken; I promise. Please just trust me?" Peter whines, and before he knows it, he finds himself making subconscious puppy-dog eyes… Is he too old for that trick? "It's just that I don't have enough room at my place and May doesn’t like noise—"

 

"You know there are other people staying here, right? Like, Steve is still here and do you think his buddy the Winter Soldier is going to be all diddums and sweetums if a screaming hormonal bag of flesh falls into his bedroom playing hide and seek?"

 

"You think I'll be playing hide and seek?"

 

"That's all you got out of that?" Tony shakes his head in disbelief. "Figure of speech, kid. All things aside, I don't think it's going to work out."

 

"Tony," Peter surprises himself and Tony by calling the billionaire by his first name for the first name ever, "I'm not turning twenty-one; I'm not rowdy, you know that; my friends are sensible and they already promised to help clean up the empty chip packets and stuff in the morning. I'll kick everyone out if there's a single complaint about noise and if anything breaks, I'll pay you for it and interest." He chews on his lower lip, about to give up. "We'll pick a floor far away from Steve or whoever else might get riled up by modern day music."

 

"Hey, I like today's music." Steve appears from the kitchen, dressed in sweats, and Peter almost ducks his head so the Captain won’t see his face, but then remembers he’s just Peter Parker today, no relation to Spider-man. It's odd to see Steve out of his costume or at least more formal attire. "I don't mind sticking around if that's all you're worried about." He's obviously eavesdropped on the entire conversation and Tony isn't impressed. Steve turns to Peter with a smile. “You must be Tony’s, uh, intern? I’m Steve.”

 

Peter doesn’t have a chance to reply. “That's not all I'm worried about,” says Tony. It's a good ninety percent of it though, because all the philanthropist wants is the best for Peter and to make sure he's safe. He could give less of a shit about muddy floorboards or the volume of the stereo.

 

"Tony," Steve gives Tony a wry smile, "you’re like an open book; I know that's all you're actually worried about. Look, I'll even have my shield in hand in case any dumb kid tries to knock a painting off a wall - could knock their head off their neck."

 

"See?" Peter babbles excitedly, ignoring the uncharacteristically violent remark. He’s mostly surprised that Steve hasn’t commented on the fact Tony Stark’s intern is asking for a birthday party (surely, that’s weird).

 

"This is ridiculous," sighs Tony, slowly caving.

 

“Let the boy turn seventeen—”

 

"Fine." Tony throws up his arms. "But I want everyone out as soon as possible and don't touch the TV remote or - or I can get Thor to come back from Asgard and crush all the bones in your hands with his hammer—"

 

"Thank you!" Peter lurches forward and hugs his mentor, brushing past the stiffness of his suit and the grumpy expression etched onto his face. "This is so cool, Mr Stark, oh my God." 'You're like the cool dad I never had', he almost catches himself saying, but quickly stops.

 

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just use the second floor so if someone falls out the window, it might not kill 'em."

 

*

 

By the time he's invited enough people (starting with adding Ned and MJ to a group-chat along with a few others and telling them nervously to 'bring whoever you want' until, perhaps, forty people are included), Peter knows he's got them sold on a party at the Stark Tower. The attendees are able to be trusted not to break anything and whatnot.

 

Aunt May wakes him up in the morning with a gift of twenty dollars and a limited edition 'The Empire Strikes Back' poster (she knows him more than he knows himself), a hastily made cake shooting out of the oven for breakfast. Peter packs an overnight bag before heading to the Stark Tower early to start setting up, inviting Ned and MJ around to help (and buy snacks on the way over).

 

After a movie marathon or three on one of the seventy-inch screen televisions (perhaps he came over too early), they set up bluetooth-connected speakers around the rooms, bowls of Doritos, twizzlers and the like, sodas and red solo cups and an attractive lights system. All pricey-looking ornaments are stored in a secured box under the sofa and spare bedrooms are locked for privacy. Peter stands back to admire the work, microwaved next-day pasta for dinner in a bowl in his hand, the sun already set and the twinkling lights of the city visible through the windows. It's approaching half past seven, the time he allowed the guests to arrive from.

 

Peter tugs on the collar of his shirt. "We're not even friends with half the people coming tonight - what if they don't even really know who I am and just want to trash the place?"

 

"Nobody's gonna trash the place, there's no booze or acid," says MJ proudly. Peter figures he should know what acid is by now so he doesn’t embarrass himself by asking.

 

Steve and Bucky have passed through multiple times in the day, offering a hi or curt nod when necessary, seeming to be at ease in Tony’s place now, but where's Tony himself? Peter hasn't seen him all day and he could do with the reassurance of the adult right now.

 

"They're coming up the elevator." Steve informs from behind them, startling Peter. "Your guests, I mean. Now, I won't hang around in plain sight because I know you kids will get embarrassed, so I'll be on the floor above unless you need something, okay? I'll do a brief check-in every hour."

 

"Cool," Peter manages, eyes fixated on the elevator doors.

 

"Oh my God, you're Captain America." Ned breathes.

 

"You've already met him today," MJ points out, confused.

 

Steve mostly ignores them. "Ground rules, Mr Parker?" Mr Parker - like he's really a professional intern and Steve is one of his managers or something. Before Peter can guess, the Cap goes on to lay them out. "No drinking, no smoking - I don't want burn marks on the carpet - no destruction of property, no drugs, no sex, no—"

 

"Um, Steve, what age do you think I'm turning?" Peter panics because is that actually how regular seventeen-year-olds act? Is that how it was back in the forties for Steve?

 

"Sorry, kid, I'm just going off of Tony's recollections here - or, rather, lack of recollections. Anyway, what I'm saying is have fun but not too much of it and please don't let anyone pass out in the bathtub or vomit in the plant pots." After receiving a bewildered look, Steve backtracks. “Right. Seventeen, not twenty-one; I got it. I mean, hey, I wouldn't put it past you to hide a bottle of whiskey down the back of your jeans like Bucky would’ve done back in the day but be careful—”

 

"I - I know," Peter huffs as the elevator lights switch on and there's the small noise of talking approaching, "you don't need to worry about anything. Star employee over here. I really appreciate everything you're doing but it's not that kind of party, I promise."

 

"That's what they all say," mutters the Captain under his breath but shoots an understanding smile before he takes off for the emergency staircase, not wishing to be bombarded by fan-girls coming out of the elevator.

 

The doors slide open and Peter ushers everyone in with a half-relaxed smile, pleased to see nobody looks ready to party too wildly and Ned and MJ are taking coats to the closet for safekeeping. His smile quickly drops, however, when after the second round of guests flood in from the elevator, Peter spots a boy holding two six-packs of beer.

 

"Hey, what are you doing with that?" He stumbles over his words, pulling the boy aside. Getting a closer look-up, this boy looks perhaps up to a year older than Peter too - in fact, is he a senior?

 

“I’m drinking it, man. Happy birthday, by the way.” The boy grins in celebration and brushes past Peter, setting his beers down on a glass table opposite the TV.

 

There's another girl that comes in with an unusually full bag and Peter blanches. How are Ned and MJ not seeing this? "Hey, uh, excuse me!"

 

MJ puts a hand on Peter's shoulders, distracting him. "No offence, Peter, but what did you think was going to happen?"

 

It's true - he's awfully naïve, and suddenly it doesn't feel like his seventeenth birthday anymore because he's not exposed enough to the real world to grow up yet. "I - I don't know. What do I do? Steve will never forgive me for this." And Tony! God, it was difficult enough earning his trust to pursue this party so if it turns upside-down, he's never going to get another chance to do something fun from the man again.

 

"Look, it's fine - nobody even has to know. I swear there won't be any obvious dancing on the tables or spilling shots over the speakers." MJ tells him. "As long as we can keep it under control, Captain America won't know and subsequently, Iron Man won't know."

 

"Happy birthday, Peter!" A tipsy-looking brunette blurts out as he gets off the elevator.

 

"Thanks," Peter acknowledges with a thin-lipped smile then turns back to MJ, lowering his voice, “I've never - MJ, I've never even drank before. Like, not even a sip, never mind a shot. How am I supposed to be okay with his? How am I supposed to relax and enjoy my own party if I'm worrying about that?”

 

"Well, then don't worry, and try something new. If you want, you could try some shots or something - only if you want. It's just a suggestion. Neither Ned or I are drinking so we can make triple sure that everything's going smoothly."

 

Why isn't Peter fighting the idea viciously? Maybe because, subconsciously, he agrees with it. "Really?"

 

"Of course. It's your birthday, Peter, go and enjoy it, whether that's with lemonade or a gin and tonic. No peer pressure or anything." MJ finally smiles, a rare occurrence from her, and Peter feels instantly more at ease. Recently, they've become a lot closer and Peter finds that he can truly trust her to do the right things and make the right choices, so he decides to give in and let her and Ned take over whilst he wanders over to the glass table which has apparently become the dumping ground for the majority of the alcohol.

 

"Lord forgive me," Peter mumbles (though he should be praying for Tony’s forgiveness more than anything) as he picks up a cup and tips some clear liquid from an unopened bottle inside. What if it's spiked? No, that's impossible, he just opened the cap. Shut up, brain. Nobody wants to spike Peter Parker's drink anyway, that's just ridiculous.

 

He smells the booze inside and makes a face. Right, he's supposed to mix it, of course. What even is this, rum? How can anyone tell the difference? He squeezes his way past a few dozen people into the kitchen to open the fridge, searching for soda or whatever he can find - something fruity, ideally, as if the sweetness will make up for the bitter distaste that will show on Steve's face when he comes down to check on them.

 

Less thinking, more drinking, Peter decides. There's apple juice in the fridge, at least, so he decides to use that. Is that a normal thing, apple juice and rum - if it's even rum? He's about to find out. He mixes the juice in, gives the cup a swirl, and brings it to his lips.

 

God, that tastes awful. He resists the urge to gag into the sink and instead hisses through his teeth and dumbly walks back into the living room. It burns like he’s always been told. Hey, it could've been worse - and oh my God, he just had a drink of alcohol. Alcohol! Sweet Jesus, he's only seventeen. So innocent. He takes another swig, realising these solo cups hold vast quantities. What's he going to be doing next, getting his first hickey? Do those things actually hurt?

 

"Hey Peter!" Ned finds his friend. "I haven't seen you in a while."

 

"It's only..." Peter goes to check his watch and finds they're an hour into the party already. "Oh. Yeah. Oh, Steve should be down shortly."

 

"Well, everything's going great. I see you have a drink there." Ned notes and Peter shrugs before taking another long drink with a grimace. Ned leans over slightly to smell it out of curiosity. He recoils back with a short laugh. "Is that tequila? Generally, you take some salt and a lime with it."

 

“What?” Peter panics. Doesn't that stuff make you really sick? “I didn't—”

 

Somebody's turned the music up, he's realised, and he pushes past Ned to head to the stereo, yelling over it. "Hey!" Why does his voice sound a little strange? "Hey, turn it down!" He peers into his cup and it's empty. Oh, right, he drank it all.

 

"Hey birthday dude, want some Smirnoff?" A boy he distantly recognises from school holds out a bottle in question and Peter stares at him for a second before blinking in recognition, the volume of the music forgotten.

 

"Yeah, alright. Thanks." He holds out his cup and watches the booze disappear inside it. He decides not to mix this time, instead drinking it straight because he's too lazy to find something to mix it with. This will calm his nerves for sure. It doesn’t even taste that bad anymore. He doesn't know where the sodas have vanished to, anyway. Where's Tony, too? Or did he already ask somebody that?

 

The night passes by mostly in a blur after that, Ned greeting Steve by the stairwell to discreetly assure him that everything is fine while Peter's head spins more and more with each drink he consumes. He's only on number three and a half - it would be four if he hadn't spilled some on the kitchen counter (at least it wasn't the fur rug) - before he realises, okay, maybe he's past the point of feeling funny and more like about to trip over his own feet or throw up into somebody's lap. That can't be good.

 

He's discovered that he's a lightweight and totally can't handle his alcohol, though, so for future reference, that's useful information. Even with his enhanced metabolism, which he thought might prevent him from ever feeling this way.

 

He sways but manages to get over to MJ when it reaches eleven o'clock. "MJ? 'M not feelin' too smart." He slurs. "Wait, no, I feel great. Why - why didn't I do this before? Why don't we, like, always do this?"

 

"Oh, Peter." The girl bites her lip in sympathy. "God, I meant you should have one or two drinks and then I would come to check on you - I totally lost track of time. I'm sorry, Peter. Are you sure you're alright?"

 

"Peter?" Steve pokes his head through from the stairwell door where they're standing and quickly narrows his eyes at the smell in the air. "You've been drinking."

 

"No!" Peter rushes out dramatically. "No, I - I'm - wait, what?"

 

"Can you even hear me right now?" When Peter can only give him a blank stare, Steve shakes his head irritably. "Maybe we should call it a night."

 

"Where's Mr Stark?" Peter questions slowly as if his brain can't keep up with his mouth. Gosh, he feels so light-headed and floaty.

 

"He's been busy working. Are you going to tell these people to go home?" Steve turns to a wide-eyed and apprehensive MJ. "Or shall I?" Peter stops himself from asking Steve why he himself shouldn't be the one to politely ask his guests to leave, but in the state he's suffering from, it probably wouldn't be a wise idea.

 

"I didn't - I didn't mean to, Steve." Peter gets out with difficulty.

 

"I know. I'll let the hangover do the punishing," Steve scoffs.

 

"I'll tell them," MJ agrees, "and we are really sorry, Mr Rogers. It's not Peter's fault, he just got a little overwhelmed." She puts an absentminded hand on her friend's shoulder but is shocked to see Peter flinching violently back.

 

"Don't do that," he whispers.

 

Steve watches the perplexing reaction then his eyes harden in understanding. He knows what claustrophobia and fear of physical contact looks like - he’s been in the war, after all. "You need to get them out," he tells MJ, and when she doesn't move immediately, he barks, uncharacteristically mad, "now!”

 

"Right, okay." MJ agrees in nervousness and turns back to the main body of the party, addressing the crowds with a booming voice, an excuse flowing freely for asking people to leave. "Everyone? I'm sorry but we're going to have to take a rain-check - Tony Stark is coming back and he's probably going to sue your families if you cause any more disruption."

 

The crowds part with little enthusiasm and people make their way to the elevator after grabbing their coats and bags, leaving behind half-empty bottles of alcohol and some food mess but otherwise a relatively clean and tidy environment. Ned restores the lights to their full settings and switches off the music once everyone's gone but the four of them.

 

"Wise decisions, people, but unfortunately that rain-check won't ever be happening under my roof again." Tony steps up from the stairwell, clad in a dark grey suit and bags under his eyes. He takes one look at Peter, slightly swaying and eyes cast down in the corner, frown lines etched almost permanently onto his face. "What happened?"

 

"Where have you been?" Steve asks - not accusingly but emotionlessly.

 

"Some of us have multi-billion dollar companies to run." His eyes don't leave Peter. "Give us a moment, would you?"

 

Steve agrees with a grunt and a nod and ushers himself, Ned and MJ into the living room, instructions of entertaining themselves with Spongebob Squarepants or whatever going over their heads.

 

"Things got a little out of hand, I see." Tony guesses and Peter nods, adamant about not speaking a word. Does Tony even know he's intoxicated? Maybe if Peter keeps his mouth shut, he won't figure it out.

 

"Peter." Or maybe he's not that stupid. "Are you okay?"

 

Peter looks up in surprise. Why isn't he being lectured yet? What is this shockingly calm voice for? "Yeah. Just shook up, I guess." Of course his goddamn words are still slurred but he's almost too drunk to care anymore.

 

"If you're wondering why I'm not mad yet," Tony explains as if reading the teenager's mind, "it's because I was exactly the same at your age - younger, even - and I'm not a hypocrite. Disappointed, sure, but we can deal with those consequences in the morning. I think you should go to bed."

 

"But what - what about the mess?" Peter asks stupidly.

 

"In the morning, kid. Now, that wasn't a suggestion." Tony crosses his arms across his chest and Peter sighs in defeat.

 

"Goodnight," he mumbles, starting to walk away before he hesitates and turns back briefly to say, "'M sorry I let you down, Mr Stark. No more parties, promise."

 

"You never let me down, Peter, I just don't want a lawsuit for underage drinking and antisocial behaviour under my name." Is he smiling?

 

Peter bites back a smile, too. "I don't think I'll be doing it again anytime soon."


	3. The Gloom

"Come on kid, up you get."

Peter is awoken to arms shaking his upper body and he groans, feeling like his brain is rattling around in his head. So, this is the famous hangover the older kids talk about - hey, it could be worse. More than anything, he's just so exhausted, never mind the general feeling of awfulness. What time is it anyway?

Peter opens his eyes and it's dark despite the curtains being drawn. If it weren't for the light on Tony's armoured chest illuminating the room, he would've failed to see his mentor clad in one of his Iron Man suits. "Mr Stark?" He mumbles, ready to go back to sleep if it's allowed. His eyelids flutter shut again.

"No, Peter, no sleeping, we have to go now." He hoists Peter up from his bed and Peter clutches an arm of metal to keep himself steady, ignoring the sickness in his stomach.

"Am I still drunk or just dreaming?" He asks. The words sort of blur into each other so he suspects the former.

"Put this on," Tony commands and throws him the Spider-man suit. Peter holds it dubiously and stares at the clock hanging over the door, proclaiming the time as just after five in the morning, his brain not working at full speed just yet. Okay, that would be enough time for his body to metabolise the alcohol he consumed but it doesn't mean all the effects have left him.

Peter tugs his suit on over his pyjamas blearily and Karen greets him in a voice far too chirpy, "Good morning, Peter. How can I assist?"

"I'm going to be sick," Peter cries, wincing at the volume of the AI's words.

"There's no time for that." Tony practically tosses him out the room and Peter finds himself wondering how Iron Man actually fit through his door, or any door. Maybe all the doors in the building are actually extra big and he never noticed. "No time for swinging your way through the streets either. Hold on." He grabs a hold of Peter with one hand and blasts through the roof with the aid of the other.

Oh God, he's going to pass out. This is it. His weak, poisoned stomach can't handle speeding through the air at however many dozens of miles per hour. Even sober, Peter can't imagine voluntarily travelling in such a disgusting way.

"Is this your way of punishing me?" Peter moans when he's set down in an alley, clutching his abdomen. He doesn't question the location yet. His liver might just explode but at least he's not unconscious. "Because it's working. This is terrible, Mr Stark, worst day of my life." He exaggerates.

"Listen up, buttercup." Tony places firm hands - well, the backs of his hands, he doesn't want to fire a repulsor through the child's body - on Peter's shoulders. "You see this warehouse behind me?" Peter does. "Your mission, should you choose to accept it..." A loud groan from Spider-man at the cheesy reference. "... There's something important in there that I can't get, but you can. Peter, I don't want to put you in danger, I really don't, and I won't if I can help it but this goddamn suit is too loud and clumsy and I really need to work on that - and I will - but for now, this is pressing and you can fit through small spaces better than I can. Tell me, do you know how your parents died?"

"In a plane crash," answers Peter, something Tony surely already knows, and he feels suspicious, "on the way to Switzerland."

"Why were they going to Switzerland though?" Tony pushes, trying to get the kid's brain cogs turning.

"My dad was hunting down this man who had done him wrong - I think it was Obadiah Stane; the guy blackmailed him with a business idea or two, I don't know. Mr Stark, you would know better than anyone that man is wicked evil. Anyway, my dad had finally got evidence against him; the cops were all corrupt so he was going to show it to some secret officials out of the country who would actually believe him and help him bring down Stane, but said evidence went down with the plane... I went searching for the stuff like a year ago to help my dad out, never found it…" He trails off reflectively.

"But this is it," strains Tony, looking back over his shoulder at the warehouse, "It's been protected here this whole time. I think it's a video, a tape or something. Your dad must've had some connections in Switzerland, with those officials since he couldn't find anyone trustworthy enough in the States. You're right, he was taking the tape to show them but it got lost in the crash. Well, this is a copy."

Peter asks, "Why are we here right now?" His interest is perked, however, thoughts of the hangover or remaining drunkenness pushed aside.

"Because I've only recently come to terms with this information and now we don't have much time. There are men situated here around the clock, Obadiah's, so they're not on our side, and they have the tape - they could take it away, take it anywhere and we'd never know. I've studied who takes watch at what hours but they all take a fifteen minute break commencing now every day - a pay-roll related thing; rich as Stane is, he's tight with his employees."

"Did you know my dad?" Peter asks hopefully.

Tony hesitates before almost apologetically shaking his head. "I never met him."

"Oh.” Of course, it doesn't surprise Peter - his dad was a simple civilian, after all, invisible to billionaire playboys running global-based companies like Tony Stark. "How do you know all of this?"

"I've been working on this case in secret for years because I believe your dad may have had connections to my Weapons Industry - through Obadiah." Tony explains. "No more questions, okay? We have to go in now. I'll guide you through what to do, where to go. We have fifteen minutes, remember. I'll set a timer." He leads Peter to the back doors and ushers him into the darkness.

"Is this a trick?" Peter worries, still having doubts about the entire story. Maybe he's not awake enough yet to properly keep up. "Can we at least turn the lights on?"

"No tricks, no lights. They can't know we're here."

"Where are they exactly? Who are they?"

"Pete, what did I say?" Tony reprimands and Peter nods, snapping out of his trance. No more questions, right. "There are two rules here, alright? One, you cannot touch the floor because I'm fairly certain there are all kinds of invisible detectors and lasers around that area, and two, don't let anything fall out of place except the tape. This place has tight and sensitive security and alarms will go off if anything is where it shouldn't be if only by an inch. Right, head up that vent."

Peter peers through the darkness, asking Karen to turn on night vision. He analyses the vent to the side that leads through one concrete wall, and Karen tells him it's barely able to fit him through it. Why couldn't Tony just get Hawkeye to do this? It's his area of expertise and the man would probably do better than a still-half-drunk teenager.

"I'm not gonna run into a fan or get lost or anything, am I?" Peter panics.

"No, that's just stupid movie stuff." Tony notices Peter's increased breathing and softens his voice, if that's even possible through his mask. "It's going to be fine, Peter. I won't make you do anything you don't want to - if you need to get out, you need to get out. It's fine."

Peter takes that as some sort of challenge, knowing Tony is genuinely concerned for him rather than trying to use reverse psychology to manipulate him. "No, you're right - I'll be fine. This is my dad's work; I have to do it, don't I?" He wanders over to the vent, the floor unusually cold even through his suit. This is what he's meant to be doing right now, crazy as it is - it's a matter of family, and Peter takes that stuff seriously. He just hopes he won't get hurt this time.

"As soon as you go in there and get into the next room, remember the rules." Tony warns him. "I'll keep watch over here just in case. Keep in touch while you're up there." He motions to his ears where there are tiny built-in microphones and speakers.

Peter slowly starts to crawl into the vent and notices almost straight away that it's a vertical lift at first. He sticks to the thin walls, pulling himself up the sides, then disappears horizontally through the tube. The metallic surface is easy to move along, complementing his webbed hands and feet without problems. Slowly moving across, he's barely aware of the constricted space he has but more focused on the light at the end of the tunnel - literally. He resists the urge to move quicker, scared he'll make a dent or loud noise in the vent.

"It's soundproof, remember." Tony's voice comes through, surprising Peter with a wince. God, he forgot about that headache. "And you're not going to fall through, I think - how much do you weigh?" That's reassuring.

"Like, one-forty?" Peter guesses insecurely. He's not too tall either, not a big guy. He's sure the whole student body at his high-school are aware of this. And here he was hoping that gaining superpowers would transform him into a handsome hunk, maybe like Captain America. At least he has a six-pack.

"Yeah, you'll be fine. You got to the end yet?" Tony asks and Peter responds with a 'yes' as he reaches the opening to the vent. Funny, how this thing is supposed to carry just air and he hasn't fallen through yet. He pushes his worries to the back of his mind, deciding not to jinx it. "And you can open it?"

"I got it, Mr Stark." Peter struggles as he pushes open the small door and looks down with a comical gulp. He's higher up than he realised. "Where do I go now?"

"Uh," Tony falters because he hasn't even seen the room, never mind does he have a clue where the tape may be, because damn their seemingly unhackable inside technology, "look for an Intel stick, maybe beside a computer or two? Can you see any monitors?"

Peter looks around and ties a web to the vent, beginning to slowly lift himself out like he's descending a cliff on rope. This really is some Mission-Impossible-style action. He almost feels as cool as nineties Tom Cruise, and hums the iconic tune to himself in his head, pleased at his level of skill as he glides above the floor.

"Peter!" Tony half-yells into his ear with attitude and Peter flinches at the unpleasant volume, wobbling precariously.

"Yeah, sorry, I'm here. I see a monitor."

"Good. Don't ignore me, you'll give me another heart attack. Can you see a stick?"

He does, and it's right out in the open to his suspicion. "Yeah. It's right there; I don't know if it's a trap." Peter sweats, keeping both his arms and legs firmly attached to the web he's spun as he lowers himself down. Around halfway down, he stops to examine the device. "Surely they wouldn't just leave it out here if it was so important..."

He can feel the web snapping and the vent crippling under his weight before he falls, but it's too late to do anything about it.

He hits the floor with a large thud and the lights come on immediately, fluorescent oranges and reds like flashing sirens around him. The alarm sounds next like a horrific school bell and Peter grabs the Intel stick instinctively, hoping he won't get tasered or something worse. Seriously not how he wanted to spend the time he could otherwise use for his bed.

"Get out of there!" Tony's voice is almost static through Peter's suit until it disappears completely, rendering him alone.

Almost. "Karen, locate escape routes!" Peter commands when small gaps in the walls open up to reveal several dozen guns all pointed then shooting at him. He ducks to the floor, scooting underneath a desk as machine gun fire throws the room into a disarray of bullet holes and flying papers. "So melodramatic!" He fights down his rational feelings of fear and rage.

"There are two possible routes," Karen explains monotonously as Peter cowers under the desk, biting back a scream or two, "the recommended option is through the overhead vent."

"It's kind of broken, Karen!" Peter yells with impatience as the guns turn on him again and he scrambles across the ground, grabbing a nearby table just in time to hold it and use it as a temporary shield. Thank the Lord it's made out of some kind of sturdy metal. He's never going to get back up to that vent now, anyway, without being torn to pieces by the guns. "Other option, please!"

"There is an automatic door to your left." Karen suggests happily and Peter quickly turns to see it, hopeful. "This requires fingerprint ID to operate. At the onset, the firearms will fall into Sleeping Mode."

Peter's seen the Ant-man movie before and it's now that he decides would be a good time to steal a useful breaking-and-entering technique that Scott Lang swore on, providing there's some scotch tape or something alike nearby. He sets his eyes on a roll of the stuff above him and reaches out to grab it without second thought as a bullet catches him in the arm.

Peter hisses in pain and presses the flesh wound to his side to hold in the blood, thankful it didn't hit him in the wrist where it would be more deadly or take off a finger.  Okay, he stuck his hand out, this was bound to happen. He can deal with it; the pain is ignorable. He rolls up his mask to bite off a bit of the tape and sticks it momentarily to the desk he's holding, praying it picks up a fingerprint or at least part of one.

How has Tony not broken down the door yet? Maybe there's some kind of safety issue on his side and he can't get to it. Peter runs over to the lock of the door, desk still in one good hand (it's starting to break up with multiple holes scattering its surface) and reaches up with his bad arm, huffing and groaning in effort as he manages to press the piece of tape onto the fingerprint screen. This better work.

"Access granted," an intercom sounds out and the guns stop firing immediately, tucking back into the walls as the lights switch from volcanic reds and oranges to a safe bright white. Peter exhales, falling back onto the wall with a tremble. Finally, his headache is the least of his worries as he cradles his arm and tries to fight the dizzy feeling that accompanies substantial blood loss.

Tony runs through the door, eyes landing on his protege gasping for breath on the floor. There's more red on his arm than there should be. "Peter, Jesus."

"Where were you while I was saving the day?" Peter grins weakly as he holds up the Intel stick. Tony lets his eyes sweep around the room for signs of anymore danger before he sighs in relief, and pride.

"Busy getting shot at as well." He replies, showing off a bullet-hole-ridden suit that's slightly smoking. "Those concrete walls must be metres thick for a reason - couldn't blast through them, or the door. Good thing you've got some brains in there." He taps Peter's head thoughtfully and nods at the tape on the lock.

"O-okay. Well, anyway, I'm kind of bleeding a lot here…" Peter trails off, feeling faint at the sight of all the blood he's losing from his upper arm. It's sort of rude that a little scratch of a wound can be so irritating.

"We'll get you fixed up. Come here." Tony half-gathers the kid into his metal arms, helping him to walk slow. "Okay, we're going to have to go a bit faster than that because I'm pretty sure the men I was talking about will be here any second now."

"What?" Peter squeaks in horror but Tony tells him to relax, it's cool; he’s got it under control. Peter can't believe it's been fifteen minutes already and their breaks have ended. He watches as black cars pull up into the alley and ten or so angry men step out, guns cocked with no sign of putting the safety back on.

"Let's think about this rationally, can we?" Tony suggests. "I'm Iron Man and you... really don't stand a chance."

The bullets start flying as soon as Tony pushes Peter behind him and starts blasting at their cars, sending them rocketing into the air like something out of an epic action movie. He doesn't want to kill anybody (these might not even technically be 'bad guys' - in fact, he doesn't have a clue who they work for or what they stand for) so he settles for knocking them all out cold with the exception of one misfit who's left over.

Said misfit is caught up in Spider-man's web, struggling and conscious.

"Who are you?" Peter demands, up in the man's face. He's a natural-born interrogator.

The man only snarls as he twists up his arm, freeing it from the web and reaching toward Peter's mask, grabbing it between his fingers as he attempts to pull it up. "The real question is who this dumb kid in a spandex suit thinks he's dealing with. Stane's going to destroy you."

Peter, in blind fear and reluctance to let his true identity be revealed if only to one insignificant man, pulls away and tries to shoot another web at the man's stray arm. Instead, he catches himself using the newest addition to his suit - the poison darts.

'One drop of this will kill multiple people - send them straight into shock and subsequent cardiovascular collapse or heart failure,' Mr Stark had warned. It's too late.

The dart hits the stranger's neck and the laughter stops. He seizes up, gasping for air as his skin flushes over with a purple hue. It's like he's being choked, only he has no control over his muscles. His eyes turn glossy and unaware, only lit up by the fear that surrounds the tears collecting at his waterline.

"No," Peter whispers and stumbles back, helpless as death once again occurs in front of his eyes. All he can see is Ben, his Uncle Ben, murdered in front of him, an innocent man undeserving of such a fate. Peter doesn't think anybody deserves to die, especially not like this, not even someone who would kill him given the chance. So many times, he refrained even from wiping out Toomes and his men, the ones that give him nightmares still. And now he lets this happen if even by accident.

"Stand back, Underroos." Tony says coolly but Peter's frozen to the spot, mouth agape in horror as the man finally stops convulsing and slumps against the wall, lifeless.

It happened so fast, so effortlessly, like it didn't mean a thing. Like Peter Parker didn't just murder a person, take away their entire life in the blink of an eye. He can't do any mission without messing everything up. How could they possibly want him as an Avenger? They won't, not after this. They'll brand him as evil. Why is Tony even here, helping him to uncover his family's secrets when he doesn't deserve it? How can anybody stand the sight of him, a killer; a ruthless, heartless machine?

"Kid, breathe." Tony puts a hand on Peter's shoulder but realises that's a mistake when it's shaken off.

"It's my fault," Peter stammers in dismay, "everything bad that's happened to this city... because I wasn't there, because I wasn't good enough, and this - this man, he..."

"It wasn't your fault, kid, I installed those darts. You didn't mean to use them. I know you didn't want to."

"I killed him." He argues, shaking his head in horror. "He probably has a family, kids who think their dad is coming home. I know what it feels like to realise he never will, Tony, I... I'm no better than any other criminal!" His voice rises as he starts to succumb to hysterics.

"Don't make me sedate you." Tony gives a last, stern warning but he hardly holds back the worry in his voice as Peter grows more agitated and worked up.

"Maybe you should sedate me!" Peter agrees, choking up. "Make sure I don't wake up! Make sure I can't do anything like this ever again! God, how could I let this happen?"

"ENOUGH!" Iron Man roars, pinning the shocked boy to the wall and shaking him into place. "STOP THINKING EVERYTHING IS YOUR FAULT! IT'S NOT! IT'S MINE!"

Peter cowers a little but mostly stands still, confused and winded. He hesitates in the silence, momentarily having lost his voice. "How?"

"I was the one that took you out tonight, I was the one who gave you the darts. I left you at that party alone, on your birthday, let you get wasted and sent you on a dangerous mission with a hangover that costs vital reflexes and could've cost you your life. I took away your suit when you needed it, I took you to Chicago and let you get crushed by a bus, I put Steve in charge of everything and look where that got us. You're a child and I'm supposed to be a responsible adult, hell, maybe even some kind of figure to look up to but I can't stop putting you in danger. You don't know any better - you do as you’re told - but behind all of what you think are your bad decisions, it's me who's making them; it's me who gives you all of this trauma and guilt. I never should have let you out of my sight, I never should have let you go after Toomes."

"You didn't know." Peter tries, his voice feeble and emotional.

"I should have!" Tony rambles on furiously. "I should have been there, I should've," he struggles, loosening his hold on his protege, "protected you," and he clutches his knees suddenly, backing away. He looks suddenly troubled and wheezes.

"Mr Stark," says Peter in worry.

"No, no more excuses and apologies," Tony denies as he paces back and forward and his heart-rate climbs, "just - just give me a second."

"What's wrong?" Peter fears the worst when he sees his mentor holding his own chest and quickly reminds himself there isn't a reactor there anymore, but what if there's something else wrong with his heart? What if he wasn't kidding when he said Peter would send him into cardiac arrest?

"No heart attack here," Tony reassures him with difficulty as if reading his mind, "just a good old-fashioned anxiety attack. God, I haven't had one of these in," he inhales a ragged breath, "a long time."

"May used to sing to me when I couldn't go to sleep. She'd put me to bed but I'd just get up and bounce on the mattress until she gave up and told me she'd sing me some kind of instrumental version of Black Sabbath's Iron Man. She was good at it, too. It always calmed me down and made me happy because... because I looked up to the real Iron Man, Mr Stark," Peter says slowly, carefully, "maybe..." He clears his throat in impending embarrassment. "Spider-man, Spider-man... does whatever a spider can..."

"Oh my God, you're not doing that." Tony splutters at the onset of a song in clear disbelief.

"Spins a web any size, catches thieves just like flies," he continues sheepishly, glaring at his feet. His eyes burn as he forces himself to momentarily forget about the man he just seized a life from.

"Please don't make this into a musical," Tony says, distraught, "I'm literally begging you. Kid, I do not want this to be the last thing I hear in this world. I will keel over right now unless you stop."

"Look out - here comes the Spider-man," Peter hums, "is he strong? Listen bud, he's got radioactive blood. Can he swing from a thread? Take a look overhead. Hey there - there goes the Spider-man."

"You're one of a kind," Tony scoffs through his suit. He dusts himself off and pauses. "In all seriousness, we should leave before the cops arrive... Jesus, I can breathe again. Your singing actually helped. What kind of superpower was that?” He holds out his arms expectantly and Peter would assume the position is one for inviting a hug but he knows better - that's just Tony saying, 'Hold onto me because we're gonna go and fly like a pair of majestic doves again.' Peter walks forward, accepting it.

Halfway up through the air, it really is like Tony's hugging him. Like, he's not imagining it - and he feels safe, too, like he used to with Ben, like he still does with May. He wonders if Tony sees him as a sort of son, even if bringing the idea up might be awkward. At least he protects him, knows what's best. He doesn't want to push things.

"What about the mess?" He remembers, wincing at the thought of everything left behind - of the man, in particular. "Everybody's going to see the web on that guy; they're going to know what I did. They're going to hate me, Mr Stark, I know it." He screws his eyes shut to shake away the thoughts.

"Zip it. I'll have someone clean it up - probably get in contact with Natasha, she's notoriously good at that kind of sketchy stuff." Tony makes a note to F.R.I.D.A.Y before taking off into the sky. He shouts over the wind as Peter tries to adjust to the rollercoaster-like feeling of weightlessness. "You still tired or do you want to see what's on this tape? You know, your father’s legacy and all? I reckon we deserve a break at some point, though.”

"I want to see it,” Peter yells back as he opens his eyes briefly enough to catch a glimpse of the rising sun over the city skyline, "before I change my mind. I can't go back to sleep right now, Mr Stark, I - I can't." He swallows at both the older and fresh memories that come to mind. He would wake up after ten minutes, likely screaming. He can't let his mentor see him like that again.

"I'll be good with some coffee anyway," promises Tony when they eventually land, then he adds cheekily, "maybe you'd like some more tequila?"

Peter has just enough time to lift off his mask and aim away from their multi-billion-dollar suits before he's throwing up onto the sidewalk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m continuing this fic! Keep an eye out for updates; in the next one poor Peter is struck with a bad experience in a car... Thank you for 10,000 hits!


	4. The Crash

Peter's convinced he's one of the most sensible people he knows, perhaps aside from the Black Widow. He looks both ways before he crosses a road, always sets at least four alarms, and doesn't get into any trouble at school (or, at least, he doesn't get caught). As far as lanky, naïve teenagers go, he reckons he's doing pretty well. He fits right in, mostly. Life is going as swimmingly as he could expect, minus the trauma at the back of his mind and the fact he killed a guy.

 

Until Tony buys him a goddamn Mazzanti.

 

After realising the Intel stick wasn’t easily accessed even by the likes of a genius Stark, Tony got frustrated at the lack of progress that followed. Sure, he worked with Obadiah for many years so the man would’ve picked up on some of his tricks, but he didn’t expect it to be this heavily passworded and private. After a month of almost non-stop work, Peter suggested they take a break, especially since he had to practice for his upcoming driving test anyway.

 

And practice he did. He even passed. As soon as Tony heard, he took it too far with his money again. Really, extravagance is his middle name.

 

The car is a lean, silver thing, two doors and large tyres, low on the ground. The paint gleams in the artificial light of the rented Manhattan garage, cool in contrast to the slightly darkened windows. Peter doesn’t know a lot about cars but he’s no idiot, and he swallows just imagining how much it would set his mentor back. This is a car so rare and exclusive he’s never even seen it on television.

 

It must be worth at least one million dollars.

 

Peter doesn't even know why the man thinks he would need this. New York has a decent public transport system that Peter is happy to rely on to travel wherever he needs to go, and traffic alone is a nightmare nobody wants to deal with if they can help it. He only started taking driving lessons so he would have a license ready if he ever actually needs it - he certainly doesn't need his very own car, and especially not such an expensive and showy one (he'd be so worried about scratching it, he'd never have any fun).

 

“Do you like it?" Tony doesn't really understand the concept of practicality, though, and only pats his protege's shoulder when he gapes openly at the sleek machine before him. This, apparently, is a ‘passed your test first time’ present. Peter’s birthday was a while ago so it can’t be classed as that kind of gift, never mind Christmas which is still a little while away.

 

Peter almost wants to shake his head so Tony will take the excessive thing back, and he won't have to feel guilty for watching May work two jobs to pay the bills, while he's zooming around in this indulgence. But his body betrays him and he finds himself nodding in awe. "Mr Stark, this is... uh.”

 

Tony looks pleased with himself and goes on to explain some features of the model, emphasising how fast it can go (two hundred and twenty four miles an hour) and the like despite Peter knows he's never going to drive on a road with that kind of speed limit.

 

“It’s an Evantra, and damn if your phone doesn’t try to autocorrect that. Zero to sixty in under three seconds. Only thirteen hundred kilograms, all custom made in Tuscany.” Tony eventually stops rambling and turns to Peter with one characteristically raised eyebrow. "Don't just stand there, get in. We'll take her for a test drive."

 

Peter nods dumbly again, gnawing on his lip as he moves closer to the car. He has to physically stop himself from running a hand across the roof, curious to find out how it feels under his fingertips. He settles for opening the door, and is rendered speechless that it opens up instead of simply out.

 

Tony gets in the other side and they slip into the sleek leather interior. For a car that doesn’t look too supersized on the outside, there’s a decent amount of leg room and Peter doesn’t hit his head against the ceiling. Tony tosses him the keys and they weigh heavy in his hands.

 

He fits them in the ignition and turns, and the car purrs to life. Peter half expects the abrupt voice of an AI to greet him good morning, maybe an additional feature Tony would go the extra mile to install. This is the same Tony that built his first engine aged six, after all. When he’s met with silence, he slowly puts the car in gear and, finally, his foot goes to the accelerator.

 

The result is instantaneous - the machine lurches forward with unprecedented speed, forcing Peter’s body to snap backwards, his head hitting gently on the rest. His foot recoils off the pedal as if it’s been burned, breath hitching in his throat as they come to a quick stop. Tony takes a second to compose himself before turning to Peter with a dubious expression.

 

“I always thought it was suspicious that you passed first time.” He mentions. Peter doesn’t need to tell him that, really, driving tests are all too easy especially with his enhanced senses. Some two-thirds of New Yorkers ace their practicals.

 

“Yeah, that’ll be the one thousand horse power or whatever it is.” Tony goes on casually, something that maybe he doesn’t intend Peter to hear, because the teen just sort of sits there and chokes. “Just take it easy, kid.”

 

“Yeah. Okay,” Peter’s voice breaks and his hands tighten on the wheel. It’s ridiculous that he’s nervous - he’s a very capable driver and knows all the do’s and don’ts - but he’d never forgive himself if he damaged the car. He’d sooner get run over, he supposes.

 

They set off again, more precarious and attentive, and Peter guides them through the one-way system in the oversized garage. The car is sensitive and not like the older, cheaper models of other brands he’s used to which require a little more force. Tony watches the road, not him, and for that he’s glad.

 

“You really didn’t have to do this,” says Peter once they’re on the streets, “I mean... I don’t even know where I’m gonna park it, or how the insurance—”

 

Tony waves him off with a dismissive hand. “Jeez, don’t worry about the insurance. I’ll give you cash for gas, too, if you’re worried. Pete, I have more money than I know what to do with; you know this. I know you don’t like taking charity—” Peter makes a sound like an embarrassed groan in his throat, “—so if you’re ever stuck, just sell the damn thing. Or trash it, God knows I do the same.”

 

The very thought that he’s suggesting Peter could possibly throw away something like this like it’s an old shirt makes the boy want to slap himself on the cheek. ‘I have more money than I know what to do with’ is certainly true.

 

“Well...” Peter trails off, unsure of how to properly thank the billionaire. “I appreciate it. It’s really cool. I—”

 

Suddenly a yellow cab pulls in front of him with a loud honk of its horn. Peter hisses in surprise and narrowly stops himself ploughing into the back of the vehicle by swerving to the side. Someone yells at him from their window and he blushes furiously. “Should’ve seen that coming,” he gets out in mortification, though a little angry at the attitudes of his fellow New Yorkers. Can’t they have a little patience?

 

“Pull over,” says Tony, “maybe it’s a little much for one day. I’ll drive us back.” It’s like he can read Peter’s thoughts.

 

It takes Peter six minutes before he can find the nearest suitable place to park. He didn’t realise how badly his hands were shaking until he lets go of the wheel, blowing out a stressful breath. It’s natural, this - he’s just passed his test, he doesn’t have all the experience in the world yet no matter how much time he spent with his instructor. But he’s sure Tony will help him through the nerves.

 

“They only produce five of these a year,” Tony muses and Peter wants to physically reach out and shake the man and beg him, please, don’t make me anymore scared than I am to ever drive this thing, but instead he just rests his head on his palms, “maybe I’ll get one of my own.”

 

Peter remembers Tony back in the early days, the beginnings of his Iron Man era, when his ego was the size of the East Coast and his car collection even bigger. It was constantly shown on the news, how he’d taken the latest Bugatti out to a family dinner, totalled a golden Porsche on his way to a meeting. Peter knows the Tony he knows now isn’t the same playboy philanthropist that once existed but Peter also dreads to think of this car - his car - smashed to pieces in a local scrapyard because Tony got careless.

 

“Swap,” Peter’s mentor commands and Peter gets out of the driver’s seat, flushing as bystanders around the car point at not just the machine but also Peter himself, gawking. Right, it must be weird that a seemingly average kid is hanging around Tony Stark in a probable seven-figure dollar car.

 

Tony takes the wheel as Peter shuffles into the passenger side and buckles his seatbelt. Tony’s driving is notably more smooth and controlled, making Peter rethink about how the examiner passed him. Was it just a good day? They rejoin the main traffic until the next red light comes along.

 

“Kid,” Tony says as they’re waiting, and unless Peter is mistaken the man looks almost sheepish - bashful, “it’s not... I mean, you do like it, right? Because I promise I was gonna get you that new Lego Star Wars crap instead, until I hacked into your friend’s phone search history and saw he already ordered you it for Christmas. Ted, or something.”

 

“Ned,” Peter corrects, feeling simultaneously spoiled because he reckons that was supposed to be a surprise, and relieved because that’s a gift he’ll appreciate from Ned, “and I do like it, Mr Stark, and everyone at school will like it equally as much which is, really, the best part. But next time,” he smiles suddenly, “I would settle for a little upgrade on the suit or something. Maybe we can try teleportation.”

 

Tony even cracks a small smile at this. “The laws of physics may not agree with you there, Pete.” He points out humorously as the lights turn green again. The car moves out into the centre of the crossroads. “Perhaps a camouflage setting—”

 

A truck slams into the side of them with more force than they could ever expect, sending the expensive sports car spiralling in circles across the crossroads. The world spins endlessly, a high-pitched screeching of tyres clear in the air as Peter grips one armrest to brace himself for the impending impact. They crash into the corner of a building, and concrete and glass splatter over the streets. As quickly as it happened, it’s over.

 

It’s then that Peter registers the pain in his abdomen, particularly on his right side according to where the car was struck. The door is battered inwards, a reversed dent with pieces of metal and plastic sticking like shards of glass to the interior. Of course it’s his luck that a large piece of metal has punched him in the side, not sleek enough to draw blood but enough to feel as though he’s in trouble - from the inside out.

 

Tony’s blinking fast, trying to make sense of the situation. There’s a gash on his forehead from where he hit his head on the steering wheel, blood trickling down to his eye. He’s winded, perhaps a sprained neck and a weak concussion, but not seriously harmed. He turns to Peter in a daze as the sound of sirens start in the distance. “P-Pete, you okay?”

 

Peter goes as white as a sheet, unable to make a sound in response. He clutches his stomach in disbelief before he falls forward onto the dashboard with a thud.

 

“Peter,” Tony says harshly, taking off his seatbelt and ignoring the protest of pain ringing throughout his body as he gently shakes the kid, moving back his head to see his eyes have slipped shut. “Peter, it’s time to wake up now.”

 

Tony shakes his head in denial and his panic level rises when there’s no reply. No witty grin, no ‘hey Mr Stark’, not even a breath. “Come on, kid, don’t mess with me like this.” Tony babbles as he struggles to undo Peter’s seatbelt. He peels back his protege’s eyelids, noting they seem unaware, and curses under his breath.

 

“It’s just shock, right? You’re just in shock,” Tony stammers, feeling for a pulse. His hands are shaking, the danger of the situation starting to set in. What if he can’t feel anything? He moves his fingers around Peter’s neck, thinking maybe he’s feeling a light pulse but he can’t be sure. It would really suck if the kid was to die on him right now.

 

And then he feels a heartbeat, strong and quick - too quick. Suddenly, Peter coughs himself awake, appearing lost. Tony nearly cries in relief that he’s regained consciousness but feels a newfound sense of dread build up when Peter can’t seem to breathe properly.

 

“I can’t - I w—” Peter gasps in shallow bursts. His lips are turning blue like he can’t take in enough oxygen. “Lung,” he wheezes in realisation, then grimaces, “hurts.”

 

“No, it’s okay, you’re okay,” Tony insists, his hands flying about the place as he comes to terms with the fact he has no idea what’s happening. Lung - is it punctured, in danger of collapsing? How did that happen, broken ribs? What is he supposed to do about that? “What about your lung, huh? What’s wrong? What can I do?” His voice rises.

 

Peter doesn’t answer and Tony feels a shiver run through him as he notices the kid’s eyes fluttering shut again. “Peter!” Tony snaps, wanting to smack him to bring him to awareness. “Don’t you dare fall asleep on me.”

 

A couple of ambulances pull up on the adjacent road and paramedics race out of the vehicles. They run over to Tony and his injured partner, easily pulling open the driver’s seat door which has been largely unscathed. (Although, Tony couldn’t care less about the state of the car at present.) “Are you alright, Mr Stark?” One of them asks, recognising the famous billionaire.

 

“Help him,” is all Tony can tell them, frantic as he’s forced to crawl out of the car and stand back, waiting for the paramedics to do their thing.

 

He looks around in wild confusion, trying to find the vehicle that crashed into them. There’s a truck lying on its side many metres away, indicating how violent the event must have been. Paramedics at the scene are pulling the driver out, and Tony feels a spark of hatred and rage that someone could be so careless - could put his kid in danger - before he sees that the man is clearly dead, instant. It was an accident, he reminds himself numbly. Nobody’s out to get Peter, but him...

 

“Looks like he’s having trouble breathing,” one woman is conversing with another as they hover over Peter, and Tony wants to scream ‘obviously!’ at them, “something’s crushed his chest. Blunt trauma, we’ll need to take a look through an x-ray as soon as...”

 

Tony mostly stops listening after that as the paramedics poke at his head injury, insisting he hop in the back of the ambulance to be properly checked over at the hospital. Tony doesn’t need to be told twice; he only knows he has to stay with Peter, so he stands and tugs on his short hair as the team move Peter onto a bed and into the ambulance.

 

He follows them in and they close the doors, beginning to hook Peter up to a bunch of life-preserving machines. “What’s happening? What are you doing?” Tony barks as they fit an oxygen mask over the kid’s almost purple mouth.

 

“He must have at least a few severely broken ribs. They’re interfering with one of his lungs. For that, we can do a common procedure of extracting the excess air from the cavity around the lung with a tube through the chest. It’ll help inflate it again.” One paramedic explains, dialling up the oxygen they’re providing Peter. “It’s the internal bleeding I’m concerned with.”

 

“Internal what!” Tony yells, causing one or two of them to jump in their seats.

 

“We can drain the blood,” someone explains in haste, “we’ll need to do it fast.”

 

Tony looks away, knowing he can’t bear to look at them prodding Peter any longer. There are voices all around him, snapping orders and talking themselves through it, trying desperately to save the kid’s life before it’s too late. Tony doesn’t realise he isn’t breathing himself until a hand rests on his arm.

 

He whirls around and it’s Peter, eyes still shut but twitching his fingers against Tony’s bloody sleeve. Tony grabs the boy’s hand, ignoring the worry-induced nausea at the back of his throat. He can’t begin to imagine the pain Peter is feeling. If he had just bought the teenager a new school bag, a pair of shoes, a goddamn ‘congratulations’ card, none of this would have happened.

 

“You’ll be fine. I won’t let you go.” He promises the superhero fervently. Tony may be an atheist, but he’s praying for anyone and everyone who’s up in the sky.

 

*

 

Toomes, the building, weighing down on him like a thousand disappointments and phobias, tricking him into thinking he can never breathe fresh air. The rubble in the air, the smell of giving up. The spider that bit him, pain like he's never known it before as he sweats and sweats and doesn't sleep in his bed that night until the sun rises and he's changed irrevocably. The bus, slipping onto him, nightmares and bullets flying across a red room as he ducks and cradles his arm. The man with the life leaving his eyes. And now this, no air in his shrivelled and damaged lungs, a mask over his pale face as he fights for his life - closed eyes and wishing for it to be over.

 

Peter's gone through too much for someone his age - for anyone at all. When he was a kid, he could only imagine the horrific things that plagued Tony's mind as he went around saving the world as Iron Man, memories of Afghanistan and then falling through the worm hole, the stressful nights he must have pretty much planned out. And now Peter's starting to lose track of all the things that have hurt him, and he starts to understand why Tony shuts people out.

 

Maybe not him, though; Peter knows his mentor cares for him, a loving glow that has developed and evolved through the years they've known each other. If something irreversible were to happen to Tony - if Peter never got to see him again because he disappeared, died, whatever - it would shatter his conscience, never mind the current traumas he's dealing with. Tony is so surprisingly important to him and the feeling swallows him up.

 

The recovery to his near-death experience takes a while, even with his fast metabolism and healing powers. Tony stays by his bed while he's unconscious, sleeping on the chair nearby under the fluorescent lights of the hospital. The nurses come and go and always offer him things to eat or a blanket but all Tony accepts is the occasional coffee to keep his body working at the same speed as his brain. He would wait awake forever for Peter.

 

After five days of fading in and out of drug-induced half-awareness, Peter fully wakes up. The wires and tubes previously stuck into him are removed, the emergency surgery been and gone. He only has another few days of waiting around for his body to recover but now it's a question of how his psyche will cope. He blinks the sleep away from his eyes as Tony straightens in his chair, anticipating questions. When there's only silence, Tony speaks.

 

"Didn't expect to be back in here so soon," he grumbles. He watches the teenager's chest rise and fall with a minimal amount of difficulty. "It's gonna hurt for a while but they'll give you breathing exercises, pain meds and all that stuff." He remembers another detail with an amused scoff. "Oh yeah, and no driving for at least eight weeks, though I guess that's the last thing on your mind."

 

Peter pushes himself up a little, noting he's already in an elevated position thanks to at least four pillows, probably to help ease his chest. When he speaks, his tongue feels heavy resting in his mouth and his voice is scratchy. "Can't drive if I don't have a car, Mr Stark," he manages to whisper, "no doubt it was totalled beyond repair."

 

"At least we won't have to pay for gas now." Tony decides not to mention how the insurance company he took the car out under turned out to be super unforgiving and harsh, and the sheer amount of money he now owes them. He can afford it, anyway. "I'm not worried about the car, Pete, you know that, right?"

 

"What happened?" Peter asks nervously but corrects himself as he sees Tony about to launch into a story. "I just mean to ask, was it really an accident?"

 

If Tony didn't know the meaning of guilt before, he certainly does now. The kid thinks they were deliberately targeted because he's Tony Stark, because he's famous and rich and Peter got hurt with this association. It wouldn't be the first time someone tried to kill him because of his goddamn last name. But thankfully, this time it wasn't the case. "It was an accident," Tony confirms, "he didn't... I have enemies, kid, but they're not suicidal."

 

"The person in the other car died?" Peter chokes. The monitor beside him jumps in volume as if startled.

 

God, Peter doesn't need this on his conscience. Tony stares at his hands as he formulates an answer. "Peter, I was driving. The light was green and I went forward but... but maybe I should have looked again, I don't know. A lot of people have died because of me over the years, you know, this man is far from the first. I wish I could tell you I know what happened; maybe you'd feel better if I could promise you he was drunk or just stupid and it was absolutely on him but... I can't do that. Yeah, he was an innocent guy, I guess, who happened to be killed on impact. And when you consider the whole world... he's not going to be the last, either."

 

"This sucks," says Peter decisively, then winces, "did they cut off my morphine supply?"

 

"Your mutated body doesn't do so well with large doses of it," Tony informs him regretfully. He taps his fingers on his leg clad in scruffy jeans as he works out how he's going to approach the next sensitive subject. "Listen, therapy works. That's all I'm gonna say; just putting it out there." He resists the urge to slap himself because of how that came out.

 

Peter, of course, doesn't look convinced. "I'll be okay," he says, though perhaps it comes out more as a question. In truth, Peter couldn't stand to be around anyone but Tony right now - not May, as horrible as it is, even though she's probably had many sleepless nights over him already, wondering how he's doing. Not Ned or MJ, who have done nothing but support him, who he can remember guiltily cleaning up the mess of his seventeenth birthday party the morning after, Steve watching over them. The memory makes him smile. No, he doesn't want to see them - only Tony. "Just need your help."

 

"With what?" Tony huffs, confused.

 

Peter shrugs but he assumes the man is smart enough to figure out what he means when he gives an answer. It's vague, but it's true. "Everything."

 

Tony smiles softly. He is rather familiar with everything.


End file.
